Back to Where You've Never Been
by LadySolitaire83
Summary: Stuck in 1895 after their time travel device malfunctioned, Sherlock and Molly attend a Christmas ball. The number of men staring at and flirting with her is making him seethe with jealousy. Will he resist the urge to punch them in the face? And will they be able to return to the 21st century? A Sherlolly Secret Santa gift for meequalnormal on Tumblr.


**BACK TO WHERE YOU'VE NEVER BEEN**

 **24 December 2015**

 **A/N: This is my Sherlolly Secret Santa gift for Karen (meequalnormal) on Tumblr. I combined these two AU prompts for this fic: "Trapped in the ancient past and can't get home" AU and "We made the mutual decision to go to this party separately and when I arrived there was this asshole flirting with you and I'm trying not to make it obvious I'm seething with jealousy but it's really difficult" AU.**

 **I'm not sure if my giftee has seen FRINGE, but I did mention Walter Bishop (one of the main characters) a couple of times here. An intimate knowledge of FRINGE and its characters is not required to follow the story though.**

 **It's a bit long. Sorry. Hehehehehehehe…**

 **This is my first time writing Victorian AU, so please be gentle with the constructive criticism.**

 **I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

 _Time travel is a pain in my arse._

Sat in the corner of the ballroom, Sherlock—or William, as he was known in 1895—scowled at the groups of men staring at his beautiful pathologist, who was giggling and chatting with fellow unmarried women across the room. His tight grip on the armrests only relaxed when Molly, whom their landlady and her superiors at Barts morgue knew as Margaret, sent him a shy glance and a brief smile. To his dismay, the gentlemen ogling his girlfriend of one year either failed to notice or simply disregarded the glances and smiles she was giving him.

He softly groaned as he caught sight of their middle-aged landlady making her way towards him.

"Hello, Mr Holmes," she greeted him with a genial smile.

Reluctantly rising, he bowed to her and gestured towards his recently vacated chair. "Mrs Sissons, please have my seat."

She curtsied and complied. "How did your business go at St Bartholomew's Hospital?" she asked.

"It went splendidly, thank you," he replied. Running his hands down his suit jacket, he furtively patted the time travel device in his pocket and hoped that the cloakroom attendants had neither misplaced nor stolen their luggage.

She nodded towards Molly, who was still enjoying the company of her friends. "Miss Hooper looks so lovely tonight, doesn't she, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock looked up to see his pathologist smile at him. He grinned back at her before turning his attention back to their landlady. "Yes, yes, she does." He stared appreciatively at her blue satin evening dress that accentuated her narrow waist and smiled at the bronze tulip patterns on her puffed sleeves. "Mrs Sissons, where did Margaret buy that dress?" His smile fell when he saw the landlady's teasing grin.

"Oh, that used to be a dress of mine. She and the servants reworked it for her. They did an impressive job, didn't they?" She gave him a curious look. "I didn't realise that you called Miss Hooper by her forename, Mr Holmes."

He blinked. _Damn it, Sherlock_ , he chastised himself."Oh, please pardon me, Mrs Sissons. It was a mere slip of my tongue. But, while you may not remember it, Miss Hooper did give me permission to call her Margaret in private. We were sitting in your parlour the day she and I moved in, if I am not mistaken."

The landlady gave him a quizzical look for a few moments—causing his heart to palpitate and his palms to sweat—before nodding and smiling. "Oh, yes! Of course, of course. Pardon me, Mr Holmes, for I must have forgotten. But I remember now."

"You owe me no apology, Mrs Sissons," he replied with an affectionate smile and a wink.

"But, my dear boy, you were not speaking to Miss Hooper in private," she pointed out in an arch tone of voice.

Chuckling, he looked down and shuffled his feet on the floor. "Touché," he replied, hoping that she did not notice his crimson cheeks.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock looked round the ballroom until his gaze landed on a tall, raven-haired man with a pipe in his mouth. He was speaking with a blond, moustached man with a cane in his hand and a blonde, elegantly dressed woman with a cheerful countenance, both shorter than he was. _Ah, there he is_ , he thought as Mrs Turner came over and started chatting with his landlady. _Mycroft was right: I do have a strong resemblance to our ancestor. But he's going to have to get Mummy_ and _Molly involved before I give him 100 quid!_

He slipped away from his landlady and fortunately found a spot where he could keep an eye on both Molly and Mr Holmes at the same time. Leaning against the pillar and crossing his arms, he watched as a middle-aged, silver-haired man with enormous sideburns and a petite, brunette woman joined his ancestor's group. His eyebrow quirked in amusement as his ancestor and the brunette woman shared a smile. Grabbing a glass from a passing wine waiter, he smirked as his ancestor elbowed past the silver-haired man (Inspector Lestrade, he presumed) to speak with the blushing brunette woman. He softly chuckled when the inspector frowned at his ancestor and rolled his eyes before turning to the fair-haired couple.

Now that Sherlock had a good idea whom his ancestor married and had three children with, he focused on Molly. Sipping from his wine glass, he wondered if it was too soon to tear her away from her friends. After all, he had finally fixed the time travel device. They could leave the Christmas ball now, head to Barts rooftop, where a soft spot was located, and return to 2016 before midnight. _Perhaps we could even have a quick shag in her office before we go home_ , he thought with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

He had just pushed himself off the pillar when he saw Inspector Lestrade and Mrs Sissons approach Molly and her friends. He downed the remaining wine and almost smashed the glass when he deposited it on a passing waiter's tray a little too forcefully. His fists and jaw clenched tightly, he stood watching their landlady introduce Inspector Lestrade to his pathologist. "Who does he think he is?" he angrily muttered to himself. "Just because he's a Scotland Yard inspector, he thinks he can get _our_ landlady to introduce him to _my_ _Molly_?"

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. _Get a hold of yourself, Sherlock Holmes!_ He breathed in and out several times before he opened his eyes. He caught her worried glance and the slight shake of her head before she turned to the inspector and twirled her fan in her right hand. Grabbing another wine glass from a passing waiter, he gulped down a huge mouthful and raised his eyebrow at Molly. He softly growled when she only gave him a warning look. He leant back against the pillar again and glared at the inspector, who was too busy flirting with his pathologist to notice him.

For the thousandth time in a month, he regretted his hastily conceived plan to keep their relationship from their landlady, her Barts superiors and fellow apprentices, his fellow instructors at the Royal School of Mines, and everyone else. _For what reason again?_ Habit, since their family and friends in 2016 did not even know about their relationship? Propriety and morality, since they would rather endure a month with extremely limited intimacy than have Molly regarded as a 'soiled and corrupted woman'? _We should've just posed as an engaged couple._

Regardless, a month of treating each other as mere acquaintances and only speaking to each other in Mrs Sissons or the servants' presence had made Sherlock irrationally jealous and unbearably grumpy. He was even willing to deduce his ancestor's feelings for the brunette woman to his face just to get this trip to 1895 London over and done with.

 _I blame John and Mary_ , he bitterly thought. In a fit of boredom after they made him watch that genealogy documentary programme, he traced his and Molly's respective family trees. But the 'Unknown' beside his ancestor's name, despite their children being named in the records, intrigued him so much that he decided to use the time travel device that a scientist from the future accidentally left behind.

 _Damn him too._ Pouting, he recalled how the quirky, clever, and fascinating Dr Bishop warned him of the dangers of travelling through space and time. But his curiosity got the better of him, and he disregarded the scientist's warnings. So, the night before his first anniversary with Molly, he persuaded her to travel to Edwardian London to find out who retired to Sussex Downs with his ancestor and bore his children.

But the device somehow malfunctioned, and they ended up in the Victorian era. To their dismay, the device also broke down upon their arrival at Barts rooftop, preventing them from returning to 2016. So they had no choice but to stay in 1895 until they could fix the device using the spare parts that Dr Bishop also left behind and that Molly had the foresight to bring.

Luckily, Mrs Sissons was looking for tenants for the upstairs and ground-floor rooms at 9 George Street. While she was reluctant to let her rooms to an unmarried man and an unmarried woman, she grudgingly agreed when he assured her that he was married to his work at the Royal School of Mines chemistry department (since he, of course, could not compete with his ancestor). The good landlady also helped Molly, who said that she was determined to be a coroner despite the era's negative attitudes towards female doctors, find employment as an apprentice at Barts morgue. Unfortunately for them, Mrs Sissons insisted that they ate breakfast and supper with her, so they could only spend time alone when they passed the device to each other in secret and exchanged loving looks when he walked her to her flat door at bedtime.

So Sherlock could only seethe as he watched her dance with Inspector Lestrade, pouting at her whenever their gazes met. _I'll punch him if he touches her inappropriately_ , he grumpily decided just as the inspector managed to brush his arm against Molly's chest, despite the enormous puffs of her sleeves. "Oh, _hell_ , no!" he yelled as he threw his wine glass to the ground and stomped over to his pathologist and the profusely apologising inspector.

Once they were within reach, he grabbed the inspector's collar and punched him in the face.

"Sh— William!" Molly exclaimed next to him, wrapping her hands round his arms to restrain him, as shocked silence fell over the ballroom.

He freed his right arm from her grasp and seized the inspector's collar again. "Do not come near Miss Hooper again, or I will break every bone in your body!" he threatened through gritted teeth. He released the speechless inspector and glared at him before grabbing Molly's hand. "Come on, we need to go." He smirked when she squeezed his hand and allowed him to lead her to the cloakroom.

"You didn't have to punch him and threaten him!" she chastised him in a harsh whisper, which was audible to everyone listening.

"But he touched you!" he hissed back.

"It was an accident, and he was apologising!" She stopped in the middle of the dance floor, forcing him to halt his steps. "Apologise to Inspector Lestrade right now," she demanded in a firm voice.

"I don't have time to apologise to anyone. We need to go back _now_!"

"No!" She resisted when he tried to tug her forward, freed her hand from his tight grasp, and fisted her hands on her hips. She glanced at the inspector, who had come up behind her. She scowled at Sherlock. "We are _not_ leaving until you apologise."

He took a deep, calming breath and ignored the murmuring spectators, focusing only on Molly's irate expression. He caught sight of Mr Holmes, who stared at him with a quizzical look in his eyes, and the brunette woman, who clung to his ancestor's arm. Sighing in resignation, he took a step towards the wary silver-haired man. "Forgive me, Inspector Lestrade. I was only defending my friend's honour." He held out the same hand with which he punched the inspector in a gesture of conciliation.

Inspector Lestrade darted his eyes from his proffered hand to his mildly apologetic face a few times. He glanced at Molly, who nodded at him and gave him a tight-lipped smile. He slowly raised his hand to shake Sherlock's hand. "I accept your apology, Mr...?"

"My name is not important, Inspector," Sherlock replied.

"Please forgive me as well. I had no idea that Miss Hooper was attached to anyone." Inspector Lestrade gave Molly a dejected look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked at his pathologist. "I accept your apology, Inspector. Miss Hooper and I agreed to keep our attachment hidden for reasons no one else needs to know." He turned a tender gaze on Molly. "But Miss Hooper and I are devoted to each other, and I could never imagine living a day without her," he declared.

Molly widened her eyes at him. "D-do you mean that?"

Chuckling, he stepped into her personal space and cradled her face in his enormous hands. "Of course I do." His lips claimed hers in a gentle kiss, their audience's scandalised gasps making him smirk against her mouth. He nipped at her lower lip before pulling away. "May we leave _now_?"

"Yes, of course," she replied with that endearing giggle of hers that never failed to make him grin.

Taking her hand, he looked round the ballroom until his gaze fell on his intrigued ancestor. "Mr Holmes?"

The great consulting detective of the Victorian era only quirked his eyebrow.

"Could you please do me a favour and marry her?" Sherlock pointed at the brunette woman, who blushed as she stared up at Mr Holmes. Without waiting for his ancestor's answer, he nodded at Molly and ran towards the cloakroom, his pathologist giggling behind him.

* * *

Each carrying a small suitcase, Sherlock and Molly arrived at Barts rooftop half an hour later. He powered up the time travel device and entwined his fingers with Molly's, as the wormhole materialised in front of them. He kissed her on the lips. "Ready to go home?"

"You have _no_ idea!"

They laughed as they ran through the wormhole.

They were still laughing when they fell on their bottoms on the other side. They kissed before Sherlock rose to help Molly up. Brushing the dust off their clothes, they looked round at the 21st-century buildings and down at the 21st-century cars on the street.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile from his suitcase and turned it on. "Yes!" he exclaimed when 'Friday 23 December' flashed across his phone screen. Once he unlocked his phone, he launched the Calendar app and exhaled when he saw '2016' on the top left corner of the screen. He turned to Molly, who had also turned on her phone and was now smiling at him.

"We're home," Sherlock and Molly said at the same time before wrapping their arms round each other and kissing passionately.

"So what now?" asked Molly when they pulled apart.

The devilish glint in his eyes was back, as he suggestively gazed at her. "How about a quick but _much_ -needed shag in your office? Then we'll change into our 21st-century clothes and go home to, you know, make up for that frustrating month. What do you say?"

"Hell, yeah!" she replied before she pulled him down and kissed him deeply. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I love you, Molly Hooper."

* * *

Less than 24 hours later, Sherlock grinned brightly at Molly, as she played with 11-month-old Hannah on the sofa. Next to them, with a glass of red wine in each right hand, Mary and Mrs Hudson chatted about a film called _Doctor Strange_. He glanced at Lestrade and Donovan, who were snogging underneath the mistletoe in the doorway to the kitchen. John, his parents, and Anthea looked at them in amusement, while Mycroft rolled his eyes in the arm chair across his.

"Oh, Sherlock," said John, who had turned to him. "How was your trip to Australia for that case? Wait, what case was that again?"

He glanced at Molly before sipping from his whisky. "Cocos Islands, to be precise. It went splendidly, thanks. It took us a while, but we still solved the case."

"That's odd. John didn't get any e-mail from anyone there. It was a murder, wasn't it?" Mary asked.

He cleared his throat. "Oh, the client e-mailed me personally. Sorry, I promised Molly that I won't talk about work tonight. But I'd be happy to tell you all about it once Christmas is over."

"So there was no Wi-Fi? The two of you couldn't text, call, or e-mail us?" Mary asked with a raised eyebrow.

Mrs Hudson vigorously nodded and frowned at him. "She's right. You two were gone for a month! We didn't know if you were all right."

Molly sat Hannah on her lap and reached for Mrs Hudson's hand. "I'm sorry we didn't get to check in with any of you. We were just so busy, and the Wi-Fi was a bit spotty when we were there."

His landlady squeezed his pathologist's hand. "That's OK, dear. We were just a bit worried." She smiled at him. "And I missed that boy."

Ignoring Mycroft's knowing look, Sherlock raised his glass at Mrs Hudson. _Shit_ , he thought when he noticed Hannah pulling the collar of Molly's turtleneck away, revealing the massive love bite that he gave her shortly before the guests arrived.

To his dismay, Mary saw it too. She began to pry Hannah's little fingers away from Molly's collar, but she inadvertently exposed the red mark on her neck more.

"Wait, what's that?" Donovan pulled away from Lestrade and gasped. "Is that a _love bite_?"

He chuckled and winked at the giggling Molly, as the truth slowly dawned on their family and friends.

"How long has this been going on?" asked his mother.

Sherlock and Molly smiled at each other. "A little over a year," they answered at the same time.

Though he rolled his eyes at the sudden onslaught of hugs and questions about their relationship, Sherlock was relieved that it was out in the open. He was also thankful that their trip to 1895 changed nothing significant—perhaps except Donovan and Lestrade's romance—in their present. And he was happy that his ancestor listened to him.

As Sherlock furtively patted the small box in his pocket, he concluded that, while time travel was fascinating, once was more than enough.

* * *

 _Walter Bishop travelled from 2167 Oslo to 2016 London at least a few months before Sherlolly travelled to 1895. (This is also for me, because I still need to write the_ _Sherlock_ _/FRINGE crossover/fusion prompt that I got months ago.)_

 _9 George Street is now 187 North Gower Street._

 _Mrs Sissons is modelled after but is not Mrs Hudson._

 _I chose Cocos Islands, because it's supposed to be one of the remotest places on Earth._

 _Twirling a fan in a woman's right hand meant 'I love another' in Victorian era._

 _The title comes from a Season 4 FRINGE episode of the same name, the plot of which has nothing to do with the plot of this fic._

 _Molly is not a direct descendant of the petite, brunette woman._

 _ **Merry Christmas (or Happy Holidays, if y'all don't celebrate Christmas) to my fellow Sherlollians!**_

 _So what do you think? Hate it? Like it? Love it?_


End file.
